


Silver and Iron

by Ladoga



Series: and taken to sacred service [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angband, Beating, Begging, Burns, Drugs, Ficlet Collection, Glory Hole, Imprisonment, Non-Consensual Cuddling, Other, Pain, Slavery, Threats, Torture, Whipping, food deprevation, mentions of breaking bones, mentions of force-feeding, oral rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-04-14 06:02:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14129637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladoga/pseuds/Ladoga
Summary: (Takes place in an alternate universe where Maitimo was a (referred to more euphemistically in universe) sex slave to the Valar and their Maiar in Valinor, and was taken by Melkor during the Darkening.)Angband (and memories of Valinor).





	1. safer spaces, or, cell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He is grateful to have his cell."

He is grateful to have his cell. It’s not a comfortable place - bare stone and metal, dim when not dark and not kept especially clean, usually too cold, too small to stretch his body out in except diagonally. But it is that, likely, that makes him fortunate in it, because whatever resident of Angband might want him and for what, they do not generally want him _there_.

He had not often had that luxury, serving the Valar. Rooms he had had, lavish and elaborate, lush carpets and beds with silk sheets. But they were his the way an outfit he wore at a banquet was his - provided because it was desirable for those he served. Because enjoyment of him by those given the privilege was facilitated, by it. He had slept alone in his bed, sometimes, but rarely had he had a bed in which he _only_ slept alone.

But the cell is here to keep him and not to be a setting for him, and the stone is rough and gritty under him and he can nearly touch the walls if he reaches out his arms but barely see them, and so most anyone who comes for him drags him out of it, and whether he serves or screams or both it is other floors and walls that drink it in. He cannot predict when the door will open; if he sleeps it is knowing that often he will wake to hands digging into his arm, a spearbutt in the ribs. But yet, when he is here, when the door is shut and locks him away - he is alone.

He does not carry hope for it to last - _someone_ , likely, he thinks, will want him exactly there, and if not that than he can not imagine the Maia lord of Angband will leave him with the luxury, once he takes notice of it, nor that it will long escape his notice.

But now they throw him back in and he hears the lock, and hard stone is no balm to wounds or bruises, and crying hurts, and he curls because stretching out is worse. And if anyone sees him they have not said it to him yet, and if someone comes for him again it will not, yet, be on _this_ floor. And he is grateful.


	2. fine work, or, needle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron suggests an embroidery project.

”I have recently happened to encounter a robe that I will wish for you to wear,” the lieutenant says when Maitimo is brought to him. 

“Of course, my lord.” He casts his eyes down, reverential and demure, as though his hair is not cut ragged around his face, as though his bare feet aren’t bloody from Angband’s stones and an orc’s lash, as though two orcs do not hold him now, twist an arm behind his back and dig clawed nails into his skin.

“Unfortunately the design is not quite what it could be. I have a mind to task you with its improvement.” And, this he had learned back in Valinor - sometimes he can observe, and gather knowledge, and consider and predict what whoever he serves might - have it mind for him. (Or, some of it, perhaps). Sometimes that helps. And sometimes it does not help, and it is only best not to try to think of it. 

With the lieutenant it does not help.

“Of course, my lord.

In a corner of the room, there is the folded robe, and thread, and needles, and a frame, and instructions for the design. The Maia stays in the room with him. Maitimo threads his needle and tries not to look up. 

 

The first time the needle flares suddenly hot, he drops it on unthinking reflex. Bends to pick it up, on different reflex; is halfway through before he quite catches up with himself.  _ Miscalibrated _ . He’s holding the needle again when he looks up. The lieutenant is looking at him, gaze mild in the way Maitimo has already thoroughly learned is not much  _ less  _ dangerous than flat fury.   

“Now Maitimo, that is no way to treat your tools.” His fingers are burned, two lines where the needle had been. The thread is fine, the cloth undamaged. He bows his head.

“I’m sorry, my lord.”

“I shall let this be a warning. But if you continue with such carelessness, I shall have to have my other servants reprimand you.“

(And he was correct; and trying to think, to imagine it before, would not have helped.) “Yes, my lord. You are gracious, my lord.” The Maia does not raise eyebrows at him, or smile, quite. To all appearances after a moment returns to his own engagement. Maitimo is still holding the needle, the frame in front of him. The design is not near finished. He gets back to work.

 

The next time he does not drop the needle, nor the time after that. Tries to resettle it as best he can against parts of his fingers that don’t blister and throb. Works. 

The fourth time he drops it again. Does not want to look up, and does it, and the Maia’s eyes are on him, cool and (to appearances) almost detached.  

“When my other servants come to fetch you, inform them that you are to be given eight lashes.” His voice is the same, almost expeditious.

“Yes, my lord.” He works.

 

Even switching hands, he starts running out of skin to try and lay the needle against. Is tensing when he pushes it through the cloth, when he takes hold of it again. Doesn’t, of course, dare to try wrapping his hand in something. Has to start forcing himself to not try touching the needle less. 

The next time everything he  _ can _ try is not enough, the Maia doesn’t even look at him.

“Sixteen.”

 

He gets to thirty-two by the time he is done, fingers striped with burns and blisters he tries not to catch the robe on when he offers it to Sauron. The Maia does raise eyebrows at him.

“Adequate. But it is only to be expected, I suppose. You are out of practice, are you not.” The pattern of the pause means he knows he’s expected to reply.

“It has been some time since I have embroidered, my lord.”

“Ah, a shame. Perhaps I shall have to provide you with more opportunities.” And he folds his burned hands and he casts his eyes down.

“As my lord wishes.” 

Sauron laughs. “How else.” 

There is a bell, and orcs arrive at the door. He relays orders. They grab his arms again, laugh to each other as they urge him on. 

“Oh, little Elf’s in trouble!”   
“Whatja think he did, mm?”   
“Bet he wasn’t sucking hard enough.”   
“Ah, nah, maybe he bites?”  
“Not if he’s still walking he don’t!” They banter to each other before one of them nudges at him. “Well, Elf? Whatja do?” And that, too, means he’s expected to answer. Or at least that they won’t likely stop until they get an answer.

“My lord was displeased by my treatment of his embroidery tools”, he says. (Because, what else is there for him to say). That keeps them laughing all the way to the room they take him to, manacles on his wrists, his arms dragged up... 

 

The orcs fulfill their orders with both duty and enthusiasm.


	3. optional coda to 'fine work, or, needle'

Three days later, the Maia lifts him out of bed and gestures him to a low table in the corner. Neatly folded fabric with a transferred design. A few colors of thread.

“Practice makes perfect, prince Maitimo.” He can’t quite stay on his feet without support, but he can bow his head. 

“Of course, my lord.” Leaning on the wall, he can make his way to the table, can mostly intentionally seat himself down on the floor. He threads the needle.


	4. Intermediate, or, pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'It is not the case that he has never experienced pain.'

It - is not the case that he has never experienced pain; it is not the case that no one has ever wanted that from him. 

Many of the Ainur he served took fascination in incarnates. In his body, in the functions and reactions of it, in repetition that yielded the same result again and again and in variation that did not. 

It is not the case that none of them found fascination in pain.

He’d made himself good at it. He’d made himself  _ appealing _ at it, wide eyes instead of a smile when that is what would be favored, flinching just right and staying so still or trying to pull away as they liked, how to detail exactly how it felt to the ones who asked. So that they would seek him out, when they wanted it, so that word would spread that he was good, that he was desirable, that if this is what you want then he is the one to find. 

He is the one to call to you, to run hands over him that feel like lightning, leave burns in the shape of fingertips, nails sharp enough to cut, holds hard enough to bruise. He is the Elf for this; the others would not compare at all, and he is always ready and there, led to a room by a hand in his hair, pressed to a wall in the garden, he will gasp and shiver and the tears bring out his eyes, delightful, lovely if you take him. (Take  _ him _ ).

He learned and he made himself pleasing and healing is fast in Valinor even without aid, and the balms above his washbasin leave his skin unblemished in their wake, hot springs tucked among temples and flowers soothe away aches, and tomorrow he will be there to smile at them again.

  
  


He had made himself learn and he is grateful now for every moment of it, to every one of them. It does not compare, it is not  _ enough _ , not anything like it, it is having a torch to try and light the world when the Trees are devoured and dead. But without a torch it would be dark entirely.

He had learned to swim in his pool and now the ocean drives him down; he had learned to hold a candleflame in his bare hand and now he burns.


	5. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He isn’t starving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: bit at beginning that could potentially be triggering to people with body image etc triggers.
> 
> Apologies for the tag misspelling; I found a starvation tag but not a hunger tag?

He isn’t starving. Vicious as they are with it, the denizens of Angband like his body as those of Aman had - like him pretty, like enough of him to pinch and prod at, absorb a blow and a few, sink nails and fingers into. They want him that way, and so even when he is not given food he is never given  _ nothing _ . Orcs who don’t bring him a bowl one day or week or another bring him bottles, potions they stay to watch him drink lest  _ he _ try to defy it.

He drinks. Whoever it is who brews these (some, at least, he is fairly certain the lieutenant has handled personally) knows their work well. They are not all the same - some he can drink almost as he might have across the sea, or are not so much worse (or better, even) than the floor of a cell or giving service, and some burn his mouth and throat as though he’d swallowed hot glass, and some he can barely choke down for the taste or the feeling of them. (Once he had not managed it, and the orcs had to hold him down for it, force him to swallow or force it down his throat. He - does not want to repeat that, if he can try enough.)

And in action, too, they are not all the same. Some can even satisfy, a little, and some sate him not at all, and some he thinks must  _ cause _ hunger rather than satiate it, drinking them worse than nothing for it. (And hunger, of course, is not all one thing - is he dizzy, do his thoughts cloud in his head, is he sick or desperate or curling over pain or imagining the feasts of Valinor in spite of himself…). (His body, of course, they all nurture the same. He may plead, almost (futilely so far more often than not) with the orc who brings him potions, he may swallow liquid fire and hope that maybe this one maybe, he may wake from dreams of meat and fruit and bread and think of  _ biting off his finger _ \- but he does not starve.)

 

The orc who brings him the potion this day has a different kind of bottle also. He can recognize, this one - one of the other concoctions of Angband, a liquid soup for the orcs. Not made for Elven tastes, and this is barely a few mouthfuls, but it is food (food) and not a potion.

The orc waves it at him. “His Lordship says if you beg nicely enough for it maybe I let you have it.”

Nodding makes the room spin around him. He kneels, tries to uncurl his arms from around himself. “Please -  _ please _ .” (It is not much less stupid to hope for than a merciful potion is, but he can’t quite  _ stop _ himself, anymore than he can not  _ try _ -)

(In the end the orc pours it out on the ground, kicks him, hard, when he doesn’t stop himself from almost jumping forward.

“That sound like permission to you, elf?” ( _ “No, I’m sorry, no -” _ )

Throws him a rag, makes him clean it up and watches.  _ “Please -” _ he says again when it wants the rag back, and it kicks him again and steps down on his wrist. “Tryin’ to be a little thief, are you?” He gives the rag back. His hand shakes, and his fingers squeeze hard enough to wring a little bit more liquid out of it and onto him, and he lowers his hand, quick but not  _ too  _ quick, and maybe it won’t  _ notice  _ \- (stupid, stupid, they won’t hesitate to break his fingers again, they might have fed him tomorrow or the next day and they won’t if he doesn’t  _ behave _ -).

The orc laughs, leans out the door of the cell. “Hey fellas. I got an elf here who’s just  _ desperate  _ for something in his mouth!”

Kneeling upright also makes his head spin. Thinks he might fall, once, but the orc has a hand in his hair, drags him back up as a thrust chokes off what can’t become a scream. He tries to keep his hand out of their way, out of their  _ sight _ (stupid, stupid).

They leave him on the floor and curled again, a few final kicks for emphasis (one takes him badly, and he’s desperately terrified he might vomit, bites down and breathes, breathes -).

 

They let him start to lick his fingers before they come back in to break them.)


	6. Bedchamber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Three guesses whose bedchamber it is- (and I get the / tag now whoot)

It didn’t start out as worse than he - would have expected.

The lieutenant takes him to his bed, and he spends - not more than hours - biting down on his hand, and the lieutenant likes it when he can’t help but try to pull away, can’t help but curl in on himself, doesn’t like for him to make it happen sooner, likes for him to try and try he is open he is good he is still and then he  _ can’t _ -

He cries, and the lieutenant wipes away his tears with fingers that only sometimes burn, and holds him close in the bed and strokes his hair and he can’t stop the tremors but he shouldn’t tense, shouldn’t - (the Maia likes that.)

 

Someone knocks on the door. And the lieutenant must make the door open because it does, and he has to stop himself from trying to burrow into the sheets, he’s been naked in the middle of the great hall and he still -

“You had asked for a report on the insubordinate slaves, my Lord.” He flinches, like icewater (can’t move much with it, the lieutenant's arm still around him as he must be looking up some.)

“I had.”

“They have all been securely apprehended -” he listens to the report, bites down on interrupting pleas that want to claw from him. He is lucky, he is so lucky, he was chosen for this before taken, he was trained for this. He can do it, his work, please -. “- await your judgement, my Lord.” The Maia traces patterns on his skin. 

“Leave.” He can hear the door again. The lieutenant shifts in the bed, pulls him along, still as close.

“And what might you think, mm, pretty Maitimo? What shall I do with my troublemaking Elves?”

It - he doesn’t try to move away, that would be the opposite -. He -

His smile is still rather shaky - most of him is still rather shaky - but it’s his best and he tries and he is lovely and pleasing and obedient and surely they are hardly worthy of too very much of my Lord’s attention, are only passing trouble, and maybe my Lord is merciful -

It feels like his bones catch fire, agony utterly blinding and when he can feel the bed around him again he can hardly breathe and the Maia still petting his hair, still holding him.

“None of your guile from you in my bed,  _ Amanya _ .” He shakes. The Maia’s fingers skim over his skin, lightly.

“‘m - I’m sorry, my Lord. Yes, my Lord.” Door again. (He is not sure he could yet move enough to flinch.)

“The leaders may die in four days. The rest may be back to work in three.” Door. He was wrong; he can move enough to shake harder.

”Please -” A hand tightens.

“Ah, ah, ah, what did I say? Or shall I call her in again? Four days is not so long for Elf is it?”

“N-no, my Lord. I’m sorry, my Lord. You - my Lord - does as he wishes.” (He cannot say please again, he has to  _ not _ -.) The Maia laughs. The Maia embraces him in the bed, and he cannot, will not pull away, favor is coin even if pleading cannot be, he can’t -.

“Face down for me now, pretty Maitimo.” He bites down on his hand again. This is good, this is good, may the pain be a lesson to him, so he won’t, so he’ll never - 

He screams until he cannot feel his voice (that’s good, if the door opens again - even if he’s not thinking right, gets it in mind to try -). 

(The Maia likes that.)


	7. Glory

It’s a dark cell. The little window on the door is closed when not in use, and no light seeps around the edges, and the cell has no more windows than it has room for him to stand, or to lie across it. 

If he keeps his eyes open (and he should not risk closing them, anymore)  body heat shows him himself, hands if he holds them out and looks, body if he looks down. When the little window opens (his ears are attuned for the sound, now), it’s a moment of light that enters (not bright - few hallways in Angband are bright, and this is not one such) and then body heat again, showing him what he’s here to do. He moves across the cell, if he was by the other wall, rises a little and turns, if he was by the door. He does.

He isn’t sure why they like it so, the Maiar and orcs who put their cocks in through the little window. He can’t know who they are, this way (mostly. Orcs there are too many of even for his memory, but Maiar are fewer than orcs, and some like consistent forms). But he does not see why it might matter to them, if he does. And they cannot touch him like this, can’t move him or throw him or grab his hair or choke him quite as well. Perhaps their Master likes the idea of him here, in the dark, kneeling up to the window, and they abide. (Perhaps they like it also). 

They cannot move him, so it is on him to move himself, to notice the grinding of the window and the light and body heat and go where he is meant to. He missed one, last time - isn’t sure how; maybe let himself close his eyes a moment too long and fell to sleep even there. This time they whipped him first, till more of his flesh seemed red and raised than pale, pushed a dull-spiked plug into him. (Small, more dull than they can be. He is lucky). ‘ _ Help you pay attention, elf’.  _

He pays attention. He kneels, or tries to curl on the floor, and listens for the grinding, watches for the light, makes himself ready. Hears it, sees it, and kneels up, closes his mouth around warm skin, moves his tongue and sucks and listens as he can through the door. Controls his flinches when a fist or palm hits the door. Swallows. Light again, and sometimes there’s another one (and another, and another), and sometimes the window grinds closed.

He waits. He does.


End file.
